


hide and seek

by Verbyna



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Kent 'means well' Parson, Kent 'what do you want me to say' Parson, M/M, Overdose, Press and Tabloids, Samwell ensemble, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/pseuds/Verbyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The doctors on the team found out. I’m quitting for good this time.”</p><p>“You’re getting clean,” Kent says mechanically.</p><p>“Stop repeating what I’m saying, Parse. I mean it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	hide and seek

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Idril for the beta! ♥ And, as always, to the twitcrew. I wouldn't hurt the good people of this fandom half as much as I do without your encouragement.

“The lax bros are here,” Shitty stage-whispers from the bathroom. “What do we do, Captain America?”

Kent rolls his eyes and holds a hand out. Shitty puts a plastic cup in it, then lies down diagonally across Kent’s bed and checks out his ass. It rates two thumbs up. Kent nods, satisfied.

“Whatever, let them stay. We have to get rid of the cheap tequila anyway. And stop calling me Captain America, what the hell?”

“You’re blond, our captain, your mom’s a socialist, and you grew up in Brooklyn. Just embrace it, bro.”

Kent rolls his eyes again and throws on a plaid shirt. He’s not looking to get laid tonight, but if the lax bros are here, he might as well leave it on the table. His hair is out of control; he has to compensate.

Shitty won’t stand for it. He jumps to his feet, tackles him, and drags him out the door in a shuffling hug. So much for getting ready. He grins back at Shits before he throws himself into the crowd.

These things are pretty much the same every time: get drunk, dance to Beyonce, do a keg stand, dance to Drake, watch Rans and Holster make out with random people and each other, find someone interested, get laid, pass out. Bitty makes breakfast for everyone who can make it to the kitchen in the morning, and the whole thing trends on Twitter in the Boston area for a couple of minutes. Easy peasy.

Except tonight the crowd parts two hours in, and when Kent cranes his neck to see what the fuck is going on, he sees Zimms signing autographs in the middle of the Haus.

Kent goes straight for the cheap tequila.

 

*

 

Jack follows Kent to his room a little while later. At least, Kent thinks it’s only been a little while. He’s not that good with time when he’s really _trying_ to get drunk. He doesn’t remember much of his teenage years, other than games. Other than Zimms.

“How high are you?” he asks Jack from the floor, once the door’s closed.

“How drunk are you?” Jack asks, rubbing his eyes with both hands. They haven’t been alone much lately, and Kent notices all sorts of things he wishes he wouldn’t, like how broad Jack’s shoulders are and how deep the circles under his eyes, even in the semi-dark.

“Fair,” Kent admits. “Also, very. You too?”

“Kinda. The flight was rough.”

“That’s bullshit,” Kent tells him, because he follows some of the Aces and none of them mentioned it. “Just stick to kinda. Or grow some balls and say _very_.”

“Parse.”

Kent lays his hands on the floor to feel the bass. It’s like a tiny earthquake. The room’s spinning. He’s queasy; he can’t even close his eyes.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks Jack tiredly.

Jack shrugs and walks over to sit next to Kent. He looks like he’s moving on autopilot. His face is blank and so, so familiar. Kent used to try to make him laugh, but he doesn’t bother anymore. That’s not what Jack needs from him, and what he needs is already a lot.

“I’ll be okay,” Jack says.

“You’ll be okay.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“You’ll be okay, Zimms.”

“Kenny,” Jack says, and Kent has to close his eyes after all, lean against the wall for support. “It’s not so bad.”

“It could be so much better, though,” Kent says, very quietly.

“Are you disappointed?”

Kent barks a laugh and shakes his head, swallows a couple of times when his gorge rises. “In you? Nah. Not a lot of junkies where you are. Stanley Cup. Fucking golden boy.”

Zimms shifts, and Kent knows enough about bodies in relation to his own to tell that Jack’s knees are drawn up, even with his eyes closed. Even with the room spinning.

“The doctors on the team found out. I’m quitting for good this time.”

“You’re getting clean,” Kent says mechanically.

“Stop repeating what I’m saying, Parse. I mean it.”

Kent laughs again and lets his weight drop so he’s leaning against Jack a little. This close, he can smell the soap and sickly sweat on him.

“You mean it. I know. It’s just—” And here he has to stop and figure out what he wants to say, because it’s all jumbled up and he has to be drunk when he talks to Jack. He can’t deal with it otherwise.

 _You always mean it._

_It never sticks._

_I’m proud of you._

_I’m scared for you._

“I just want to believe you. And I can’t.”

 

*

 

Providence isn’t the first team to show an interest in Kent, but they’re the first who don’t try to include random urine tests in his contract.

It’s a good deal for a 24-year-old rookie who overdosed before his draft.

He doesn’t read the Aces’ offer.

 

*

 

The night before Jack ends up in the hospital, he calls Kent to congratulate him on the contract. Kent’s overstuffed and tipsy and happy, and he doesn’t listen to the little shifts in Jack’s voice for once.

“Thanks, man. Hey, gotta go, Shitty’s packing a bowl.” Shitty waves at Kent, so he tells Jack that he said hi and hangs up.

He hangs up, and when he calls his mom in the morning, she doesn’t ask about his contract. She asks him if he’s heard the news.

“Did you know?” she asks shakily. “Did he ever--”

“Of course not,” Kent lies. “I hope he’s okay, but I never, like, knew. We don’t keep in touch.”

He spends the day on gossip sites, looking for a report on everything they used to do in Juniors. He can’t lose his second fucking chance over this. Nothing comes up, though. The guys they hung out with back then have just as much to lose, and the girls probably don’t remember them. It’s not like they were hooking up with other people.

Hours later, Lardo drags him out of his room to hold up part of the big installation for her exhibition. He lifts with his knees and pretends his legs are shaking with effort, not exhaustion.

“I knew,” he admits, an hour into it.

She gives him a look of such pity that he has to turn his head away.

“Everyone knows, bro. We’ve never seen you take pills since you got here. What the hell happened?”

“Long story,” Kent says, even though it’s not.

 

*

 

The media might not actually know that Kent followed Jack down the rabbit hole, but him getting into the NHL is news, and he’s the half of Zimms-and-Parse that’s not currently having his calls screened by medical professionals. He has to lie about it, over and over. It takes all his training not to tell them to go fuck themselves - this is why Jack can’t sleep without dosing himself, why he had so many panic attacks that he built his pregame routine around them, why he got to twenty-five without admitting he needs help.

Instead of telling the journalists to go fuck themselves, Kent steers the conversation to his plans to win against Zimms next year.

“So you think he’ll be back?”

“Obviously,” Kent says, smiling so they can hear it down the line. It’s being recorded for an audience of tens of thousands. “Jack Zimmermann is the most determined guy I know. He was really helpful when I was in trouble. Real solid guy. This time next year this is gonna be, like, water under the bridge.”

“So he’s not an addict?” the journalist insists.

Kent looks out the kitchen window. Rans and Holster are playing a game that involves the garden hose, a can of whipped cream, and rolling around in the grass. He takes a deep breath and releases it, just like Jack taught him. Like he learned from watching Jack.

“Someone would’ve noticed, right? A guy like that, a player of his calibre, someone notices.”

After all, it only took Kent three days. He didn’t care about Jack yet. He just asked for a pill, because he wanted to be Jack Zimmermann’s friend, and he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

The rest is on both of them.


End file.
